


Make a list of everything that's ever been on fire

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Family, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We're brothers, you and I. We want the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1945

When Charles thinks of Erik, it's of him leaving, never looking back.

 

 

_one._

The woman shows up one day with this tall, skinny kid, and Charles hides behind the bannister as she snarls at his father, who crosses his arms and shakes his head in the way that means he's already made up his mind.

At some point she grabs the boy by the lapels of his coat and pulls him forward, almost shoving him. "He's your child, I won't take responsibility for the little monster just because my sister died."

If there is a conversation between Charles' mother and his dad, Charles misses it, and the next morning the boy is sitting at the breakfast table, scowling into a bowl of cereal. "Charles," Father says. "This is Erik. He's your- he's your brother, and he will be staying with us from now on."

Charles holds out a hand. Erik flinches and scoots away from him. Father puts his hand on Charles shoulder and leans down. "Perhaps you'd like to bring mother her breakfast. She's feeling unwell and your presence might cheer her up." Father always overestimates his mother's fondness for her only son, but Charles goes up nonetheless. She refuses to open the door, so he leaves the breakfast tray outside it and goes back down. Charles' father is speaking in low tones to Erik. When Charles comes in he says, "I was just telling Erik. We'll enroll him in your school next term. Perhaps a tutor in the meantime so we can - well. You can guide him through."

"Of course." Erik's head is still bowed, hair a dark mess over his face, and Charles wants to reach forward and push it back. Instead he gets himself a bowl and sits down across him. Erik's head finally snaps up. His eyes are dark and furious, but it's not aimed at Charles. "I've always wanted a brother," Charles says, and Erik lowers his gaze once again.

 

_two._

Charles tries to bring Erik his things: model trains and chess sets and everything else he's been given in lieu of attention. He tells Erik brightly, "You're my brother now. Perhaps we could share until your own things arrive." Erik doesn't seem to have brought anything with him. His room is bare, save for the clothes that look brand new hung neatly in his closet. Erik only stares at him as if he's a bug, and simply walks away.

This goes on for a while: Charles will try to make conversation and Erik will either ignore him or walk away. He tells his mother once, "Erik won't talk to me," and she tightens her lips in exasperation and shoos him out of her bedroom.

"Well at least the boy has some sense in him. It's best that you stay away, then."

"But he's my brother," Charles replies petulantly. "You said so."

Mother puts her hand to her forehead, as if his words are giving her pain. "Go away, Charles. I have a headache and I need my rest."

Charles is accustomed to rejection, which is probably why he keeps trying, and eventually Erik seems to simply get used to having him hovering around.

 

_three._

Christmas in the Xavier household is always fraught with tension. The first year Erik was there, he refused to go to the traditional mass. Mother, Charles knew, didn't particularly give a damn about Christ, but it was Christmas and it was what they did. Erik just flat out kept saying no until she snapped, ordered him to go to his room and get dressed right now.

Erik's face turned hard, and he said flatly, "Force me to go and I'll tell everyone that the bastard you were forced to adopt is a Jew." Mother blanched, and she slapped him right across the cheek. Erik didn't say a word, he just turned around and walked slowly upstairs to his room.

"Oh," his mother said, and she started to cry, deep, anguished sobs. She spotted Charles at the corner of the room and stopped, giving him a watery smile in return. "Come here, Charles," she said.

Charles shook his head. "No," and ran past her outstretched hand, up the stairs and towards Erik.

She never asked him again, and every year at every function or mass or dinner they are forced to attend, she shakes her head long-sufferingly whenever Erik is brought up. "Boys," she says, squeezing Charles' hand tightly. "At least one of them still listens to his mother."

There's still the tree, and this year, like the last, Erik lounges on the bottom of the stairs and watches with idle amusement as the help decorate it. Charles joins him on the steps, knocking their knees together in the process. Erik grimaces, but makes no attempt to shift away. Instead he says, "I remember when you'd get so excited about the tree and insisted that you 'help' in the decorations. Because you knew better than them which silver bell should go where."

"I was ten," Charles bristles. "I'm above such things now, surely. Besides, Father always encouraged me."

"Do you miss him," Erik asks.

"Sometimes," Charles says. Mostly he tries his best not to think about his father. He knows Erik doesn't like to think about his mom either, although he keeps a photo of her in his dresser drawer. He frowns. "See, they're doing it wrong. The balls are too heavy to be hung so high."

"Surely they are," Erik says, and there's a strange expression on his face. "I'd never met anyone like you before."

"Is that why you avoided me the first few years you were here." He tries to keep the hurt out of his voice, but from the way Erik grabs his wrist he doesn't succeed.

"It wasn't that," he says, but he abruptly releases Charles instead of elaborating. "You're my brother," he tells Charles finally, pulling himself up into standing position. "It should mean something."

 

_four._

Erik spends hours in the bathroom sometimes, and Charles gets tired of waiting because he wants to pee, or he gets tired, period. When he tries the door it's not closed so he comes in, tries to be unobtrusive. Not that it seems that Erik will notice, he's sitting in the bathtub, knees to chest and head hanging low. Charles creeps close, hovers his hand over Erik's back. It seems he stays that way forever, but when he ventures closer Erik's hand is on his wrist, twisting it casually as if it shouldn't hurt.

"What do you want, Charles," and he sounds weary. But then Erik always sounds weary. "Well?"

Charles has never been any good at hiding his feelings; he's sure it's written all over his face. Erik stares at him, unmoving, but finally he just laughs, and lets go of Charles' wrist. "There are about a million bathrooms here. Maybe you should use one that doesn't have me in it."

But that's entirely the point, Charles wants to say. Instead he just clears his throat, says, "I could wash your back, maybe." He picks up the washcloth, slung carelessly over the side of the tub, before Erik can say no.

Erik has scars that he's never hidden from anyone, but Charles has never been close enough to touch them either. Not like this, anyway. "You can start _washing_ anytime," Erik says at one point, because Charles has mostly been going around in aimless circles, letting his fingers graze where flesh puckers, or is hardened by scar tissue. Erik draws a breath, but makes no move to stop him. Charles sighs. He puts his chin on Erik's shoulder and says drowsily, "I love you."

Erik laughs once again, and reaches back to rumple his hair with one damp hand.

 

_five._

"You want to know what Shaw did to me," Erik asks, and they're in Charles' room, Erik lying on his stomach and clearly only pretending to be interested in his novel. Charles hovers around him, silently trying to convey, _less reading, more paying attention to me please._

"I know he hurt you."

"You don't know anything." He slams his book shut and throws himself onto his back. Charles turns to his side and scoots closer, to Erik's seemingly vast amusement. "Aren't you the one always going on about how I need to get myself a decent education."

"Yes, but." He doesn't bother finishing the sentence, just allows his eyes to flutter closed. This near, Erik is heady, intoxicating, and it's not fair to ask him to think of anything else. Erik's thumb slides along the base of his throat, on the jittery pulse of his heart.

Charles pulls away and sighs dramatically. "No, you're right, finish your novel. Your essay is due tomorrow."

"Why are you more focused on my curriculum than your own, Charles."

"I've finished all my homework," Charles points out. Erik glares at him before he jabs Charles in the stomach with his finger. "Stop it you know I get ticklish ow." When he can finally stop laughing he rescues the book and opens it. "I read, you listen." Erik raises a brow, but when Charles tucks his head under his chin and settles down against his chest there's no objection.

 

_six._

It's raining and they're ensconced away in one of the guest houses. Erik has a bottle of stolen gin in his hand and he's steadily making light of it while refusing to give Charles any. "You're fourteen, that's far too young," he says, when Charles grabs at the bottle.

"It's not as if you're old enough either." Erik finally relents, tilts Charles' chin upwards as he pours the gin down Charles' throat. Charles splutters and coughs, "Jesus, that's utterly vile. It tastes like motor oil."

Erik only grins at him, and he's so close Charles can't breathe anymore. "Erik." Charles reaches clumsily out, and Erik moves away as if in slow motion, avoiding his touch. "Don't, please," Charles says. "You don't understand."

"I do, but I don't think you do. You're just a kid. Fuck, Charles."

"You act like you're so much more mature than me," Charles says. He grabs the bottle from Erik's hand and takes a defiant gulp. "But you're not."

"Go away."

"No," Charles says, and when he puts his palm to Erik's cheek Erik doesn't seem able to move. Instead he just inhales once, harsh, and grabs at Charles. His fingers are hard on Charles' skin and their teeth clash when they kiss, but Charles doesn't care.

He reaches for Erik's belt and tugs at it and it's strange for a moment - he stops to look around as all the silverware on the nearby mantelpiece clatters and a painting falls down as the iron nail that holds it up pops out. But he doesn't much care, all he cares about is Erik's cock between his lips, and the way he moans, and the way he pulls Charles up afterwards almost violently and kisses him as if he can't believe what just happened, as if he can't believe that Charles would just -

"This is wrong," he says, when they finally break apart, but Charles blinks seriously at him and eventually he stops.

 

_seven._

Erik is reluctant to kiss him, every time, then unable to stop once he starts. He tastes like steel and copper, heated metal just under his skin, and he covers Charles' mouth to shut him up, even though Charles always says, "In this huge house Erik, no-one's going to hear."

"You're not the one that's at risk here. Your mother will only think I'm abusing her precious, perfect son," Erik says. "Even I'm not willing to get into that type of trouble. Do you know what they do to deviant boys like me."

"She will not." But it's true, even as he says it he knows it's true. "I won't let anything happen to you," he says.

"You have no idea what the real world is like at all," Erik says, but he doesn't say it as an insult, just as a statement of fact, and Charles wants to crawl into him then and there, but he just bites his lip and looks away instead. "You can't always think of yourself, Charles."

"Erik," Charles says, because Erik can be stupid sometimes. "All I ever think about is you."

 

_eight._

Two days after about the twelfth time Erik gets suspended from school, Charles stands at the entrance of the bathroom and watches him as he shaves. Erik ignores him, so Charles purses his lips and says, "So what did this one do. Look at you wrong, or bump into you as you were walking?" Mother told him he had broken the boy's nose. The only evidence of that is Erik's knuckles, red and bruised.

"What do you want me to say, exactly."

"How about an apology. How about for once in your life not behaving like an angry child that lashes out whenever you feel like it."

"You realize when you get this disapproving you sound exactly like your father."

"Our father, Erik, and don't avoid the subject."

Erik stills, the blade halfway down his cheek. "My father," he says quietly, and Charles jumps as he tosses it carelessly into the basin, steel hitting porcelain with a disquieting clang. "My father, who left my mother penniless with a two year old to go back to his pregnant _wife._ " He turns, and starts walking towards Charles, and Charles should possibly be afraid, but it's Erik, so he just lifts his chin and stares him down. "The man _I_ called father was named Sebastian Shaw, and he once put my arm into a vise because he felt that I hadn't been screaming loud enough, just to see how long I would hold on before I broke. For the record, it was right as the bone snapped." His breath is hot on Charles's temple. All the metal in the room starts to shake.

Charles starts to reach out, _calm down_ but Erik's practically snarling, so in the end he just says, "You have choices, Erik."

Erik rubs at the foam on his face, says, "No. No I don't. People like me don't get choices, not unless we take it. Choices are for people like you."

Charles' voice is small when he takes Erik's hand into his, raises it to his lips. "There's no you and me. There's just us." Erik's eyelids flutter when Charles starts kissing each finger in turn, slowly. "I want you to. I want us to -"

It's the first time they fuck, on a hazy Saturday morning in Erik's bed, and through the awkwardness, and the pain, and the noises he's helpless to hold back, Charles can't stop staring at Erik's face, at the way his lips tighten and his eyes fall closed, the way he snaps them open when he's finally in, and the look of amazement on his face when he says, "Charles," right before he comes.

 

_nine._

Some nights, Erik comes into Charles' room instead of the other way around. Usually it's when they're fighting, or more specifically when Charles is furious with Erik for some reason or another. Nights like these, he'll lie awake and if he concentrates hard enough, he can pretend he can hear Erik's thoughts: Erik is dreadfully sorry for calling Charles a spoilt brat. Erik is dreadfully sorry for skipping their library date to hang out with Emma. Erik is sorry and Erik wants to make it up to him.

But then sometimes it's as if he truly can hear Erik's thoughts, and they're just about anything but apologetic. Frustrated and annoyed and exasperated perhaps, but rarely sorry. _You're a jerk. I hate you_ , he thinks fiercely once, and barely two minutes later Erik's throwing his door open. "What did you say," he asks, and he sounds confused.

"How could I possibly have said anything," Charles snaps. Erik's slightly out of breath. He must have run all the way here.

"I didn't run," Erik says absently, and the door shuts behind him. Charles lifts the covers so that he can climb in with him, but Erik drags them away from him instead and drops them carelessly to the floor before kicking apart Charles' legs and settling inbetween them. Charles exhales as his fingers work on his pajama bottoms. He wants to help but in the end all he can do is lift up when Erik orders him to and moan helplessly when Erik swallows him down.

"Please, Erik," Charles says, mumbles really. "I love you, _oh._ " He wants desperately to come but Erik pulls away and Charles whimpers. "Please," as Erik lays a trail of wet kisses up his torso. When he reaches Charles' face Charles kisses him hard and Erik says, _I want you so much, want to fuck you. Need you, Charles._ But then Erik's tongue is in his mouth and it doesn't make sense, how -

He doesn't care though, there's lotion in the side drawer and Erik jerks away immediately, slides the drawer open without touching it and grabs it in his palms. He looks confused, briefly, but Charles says, "Please", once again, and the confusion's replaced by harsh intent. _I love you,_ Erik tells him, before he settles once more inbetween Charles' legs, spreading his thighs apart with his fingers until Charles is open and ready for him. _You will never know how much._

 

_ten._

His mother's friends, who periodically appear at their doorstep trailing expensive perfume and carefully concealed boredom, tend to either ignore Charles or distantly coo over him, letting him know how handsome he's growing up to be or how they wish he would spend more time with their own sons.

Their eyes always skitter nervously over Erik, barely acknowledging his presence. Erik, in response, is almost always unfailingly polite to them, to the point of obsequiousness. "If only you were this attentive to those who are there to aid you. Such as your teachers," Charles says offhandedly. In response Erik tilts his body so he's pressed up against Charles' side. Heat, everywhere they touch, even though their clothes. Charles waves awkwardly at a woman he only somewhat recognizes, making her way past the foyer into the dining room. "And what purpose would that serve, exactly."

"College, for one thing." Erik's hand slides underneath his sweater. "Dammit, Erik."

But Erik's mouth is a thin, hard line. "Do you imagine that I would ever be anything but the bastard son forced upon your poor, long-suffering mother to any of these people. Do you honestly believe that."

"I think," Charles says carefully. "You already are."

"Come along," Erik whispers into his ear. "Let's go. Or would you rather stand here like a well trained pet."

Charles leads Erik up the stairs towards his bedroom, but Erik grabs his hand instead and drags him in the other direction.

"Where are we going? Oh no, not the study," Charles protests, dragging his feet uselessly against Erik's singleminded determination.

"It's the last place anyone will look."

"I have it on good experience that my bedroom is the last place anyone will look."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that." Charles hasn't been in the study for a while. It was always his father's domain, and when he was alive Charles would often be found sitting cross-legged under a table, book in his lap as his father sat in the armchair and read, acknowledging Charles' presence with a nod here, a supportive glance there. Nowadays the only people that ever enter are the help; Charles keeps his books in his own room, piled up to overflow. Erik will tell him it's a fire hazard, and Charles has found him on more than one occasion rearranging them in neat stacks along the wall. "It would be a shame if you burnt to death at such a young age. Death by books. How tragic."

"Well perhaps you might want to consider smoking elsewhere. Honestly, sometimes you smell like a chimney, I don't even know why I still allow you to kiss me."

But he's not thinking of smoke now, or books, or anything else but Erik pushing him down onto the loveseat. Charles sprawls, too sated and full from lunch to move. "Lazy," Erik says, but gets amiably enough down onto his knees.

"They all want you," Charles says.

"What?"

"My mother's friends." The desire wafts from them whenever Erik slouches by, sickly sweet with desperation and denial. It makes Charles want to shout _he's mine_ over and over again until they get it. Once, the woman sitting next to him, a middle-aged blonde woman with a pinched face and brittle hands, turned to him and murmured, "Did you say something, dear."

"No," Charles said, and stared at her until she forgot.

"They think you're beautiful." Dangerous, and wild. "But they don't understand."

_They don't see you like I do._

"And how do you see me, Charles." Erik's eyes are hooded, his fingers paused in unbuckling Charles' pants. Charles watches as the belt undoes itself, his zipper next, while Erik's hands are still and unmoving. Stranger and stranger. "What are we," Erik asks, and he sounds lost.

"Mine," Charles says. "I see you as mine." He trembles as Erik pulls his cock out, runs his palm across it, hot and slick. Charles squirms as the pleasure hits him, and not just his own, either. Erik's, shadowed and faint, and for the briefest of moments he can see himself, face flushed and eyes half-closed and _beautiful._ Charles would never think of himself that way, and when Erik opens his mouth and swallows him down his own cock is in his mouth and, "Ahh," he shudders, and comes, and Erik doesn't let him move, doesn't spit, just swallows it all down. Erik laughs when Charles pulls him up, finally, collapses on top of him and allows himself to be kissed, over and over again.

He pulls back soon enough though, and asks again, his eyes bright and burning. "What are we."

"I don't know," Charles replies. "Different."

"Different," Erik says. He smiles suddenly, that smile that transforms his face that no-one but Charles ever gets to see. "Tell me about the women that want me."

Charles puts his fingers to Erik's temple and says, "I don't - maybe I can show you. I think I can show you."

"No." Erik shakes his head. "I don't care about them. Show me something else."

It's a feeling more than anything else, ultimately, that he isolates and sends out in tentative threads that he pictures as wavering lines of light because it makes it easier to control. "Do you really see me like that," Erik asks after a while. He's shaking.

Charles wipes a tear from Erik's cheek with a thumb. "Always," he says.

"Then you don't know me at all." But he doesn't move away when Charles kisses him again, and every thought he has is tinged with wonder, and fear.

 

_eleven._

They test their - Charles still doesn't know what to call them, but Erik comes up with it once, he calls them _powers_ , their powers, and it feels exactly like that on some days, when he's crawling into Erik's mind and it's as if he can touch it, that bright furious coil of what Erik might someday be capable of. When metal objects are flying around the room with Erik at the center of it, eyes wide in amazement. Or other days, when Charles sends a thought out, pushes it into someone's brain and their will crumbles like dust and they do what he wants them to, without question, as if it's of their own volition.

In school, they share more than a few classes - Charles skipped ahead, and he's usually seated at the front but whenever he's in a class with Erik invariably he ends up at the back, trying to concentrate while Erik does his level best to distract him. Nowadays he's taken to playing with anything metal that Charles happens to have on him: buttons, zippers, watch.

Charles mostly ignores him, but it's sometimes hard when Erik also decides he's going to send thoughts to Charles and Charles has no choice but to respond.

_I saw Moira talking to you today. I think she likes you._

_No, she doesn't. I know she doesn't. Stop that. No-one likes me. Only now I know that for certain._ It's not entirely true. Girls like him just fine. Discussing a geography project with Moira, she kept thinking, _He's adorable but he flirts like this with all the girls._

Erik snorts. _You are a horrible flirt._

_You're just jealous._

_Of you, or of them?_

Charles can't help but smile, and the teacher pauses mid-lecture to ask, "Is anything the matter, Mr. Xavier."

"No ma'am, nothing at all."

She frowns. "Perhaps you'd like to sit up front once more," she says pointedly, shooting a short, annoyed glare in Erik's direction.

"No, I'm perfectly fine right here, thank you." Charles slumps down into his seat, and after a moment her gaze turns glassy and she turns back to addressing the rest of the class.

_Nicely done._

_I don't think I should have._

Erik frowns as if he doesn't understand, so Charles pulls away from him and turns instead to stare out the window.

In between classes they duck into hidden recesses and janitors' closets and make out, Erik pressing Charles against a wall as Charles slides his fingers inside Erik's waistband. The strategy is always not to make noise and not to make too much of a mess, but Charles can't help the sounds sometimes, and he can't help it when he's on his knees and Erik has his hand in his hair and he's hissing quietly, trying his best not to fuck Charles' mouth. Charles doesn't mind if he does, but Erik won't, so Charles just opens his lips as wide as he can, swallows as deeply as possible, and it's usually enough for Erik to come. Sometimes Charles follows suit, splattering on the ground without even touching himself much. "Really," Erik says, kneeling down to help Charles clean up.

"Shut up," Charles mutters.

Erik forces his chin up with his index finger and says, "You look indecent. Everyone's gonna know exactly what you've been up to."

Charles self-consciously smooths his hair down, and allows Erik to fuss over him until he's satisfied.

"Better," Erik says finally. "Come along, Mr. Xavier. You wouldn't want to be late for your next class."

"Erik," Charles asks, as Erik opens the door and peeks out cautiously. "You're not - you're not going to ever leave, are you?"

Erik shoots him a look, but Charles can't make out what it means. I would die without you, Charles wants to say, but in the end he doesn't, and Erik only shakes his head and tells him, "We're all clear."

 

_twelve._

They're in bed and Erik is lazily jerking him off, his gaze locked onto Charles'. Charles tries to close his eyes at one point but Erik squeezes and says, "No. Look at me," so Charles just gasps and shudders until Erik stops, and when Charles opens his mouth to object Erik whispers, "You feel everything, don't you."

Charles doesn't know how to respond, so he just says, "Erik," and Erik kisses him on the forehead and makes him come.

 

_thirteen._

Erik keeps most of his allowance in a small box tucked underneath his bed. Charles used to spend all of his, but now he puts some aside and when Erik's not in his room he pulls the box out and adds the money in. Once, Charles comes out from the shower and Erik's sitting on his bed. There's a pile of bills next to him. "I believe this is yours," he says.

"You can keep it," Charles mutters. He sits heavily down on the bed, as close to Erik as he dares.

"I don't want your money, Charles."

"Still, you really shouldn't keep yours under the bed." Charles picks up the notes, unsure what to do with them. Erik takes them from him and deposits them in the side drawer. "We should go to the bank," Charles adds hopefully. "I'll help you open a savings account."

"The money's not for saving."

"Then what?"

"Shh," Erik says, his fingers on Charles' lips.

"Erik -"

"Shh. You'll be okay, I promise."

Charles is always torn between telling Erik: "You can't leave me," or: "Take me with you." He's afraid that Erik will say Charles has no room in his future and equally afraid that he won't, and Charles will have to decide what's more important to him. The truth: despite everything, he can't imagine leaving his home for someplace else, not now. And maybe, not even for Erik. So he bites his tongue and kisses Erik feverishly as often as he can, touches him as often as he can, transmitting love and need and desperation as best he can.

Only once does Erik ever say, "It can't always be on your terms, Charles," and Charles flushes, swallows the automatic, _But why not._

 

 

When Charles thinks of Erik, it's of him telling Erik, _I want to save you_ , and Erik saying:

"I don't need to be saved."

 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "[Nervous System](http://poetry.dreamwidth.org/83969.html)" by Michael Dickman. Art graciously provided by [etirabys](http://etirabys.livejournal.com/7945.html), who rocks. ♥


	2. 1956

1.

Mother mutters, "Good riddance," when she finds out Erik is gone.

Charles, uncharacteristically, screams at her for about ten minutes before he storms off and locks himself in his room. He more or less stays there until he graduates, emerging only for school and occasional mealtimes. Mother doesn't seem to notice at all, although her lips flatten even further whenever Charles glances at the empty seat next to him, and her thoughts are continuously muddled with alcohol.

"People leave you," she snaps once, when Charles is being particularly broody. "You just have to keep your chin up and move past it."

"Or drown yourself in alcohol and pretend you don't feel anything. How's that working for you, Mother?"

She slaps him then, and he clutches at his cheek, stung to tears from surprise more than anything else. "You carry on, Charles," she says finally. "We all do."

 

2.

His guidance counselor says, when Charles tells her he's decided to forgo England, "But you've had your heart set on Oxford since you were twelve, Mr. Xavier."

Charles shrugs. "I guess I just unset my heart, then."

The woman sighs. "If this is about that brother of yours -"

"His name," Charles says evenly. "Is Erik. Now may I go please?"

She waves him away, shaking her head in disappointment.

If Mother cares at all that he's not pursuing the goals he'd set out for himself, not following in his father's footsteps as planned, she doesn't feel the need to bring it up until the day he leaves. She stands in the driveway as they're loading his bags into the car and adjusts his collar, says distantly, "I met your father at Oxford, you know. American, but he was so dashing. It was like a fairytale. The wedding, this house, and then we had you, and everything was so perfect."

"Perhaps I'll meet the man of my dreams as well. Wouldn't that be lovely."

She flinches. "Don't even jest about things like that."

"I'm not. Nevermind." On impulse, he leans up and pecks her on the cheek, envelops her in a delicate hug. "Do take care." _Try not to drink yourself into a stupor._ Mother pulls back, a confused look on her face. Her thoughts are chaotic, and the temptation to reach in and move things around until there's order is alluring, all of a sudden. Charles steps away instead, says, "Goodbye, Mother."

As the car goes down the driveway Charles looks back, but she's already gone back into the house.

 

3.

The first week he's there, Charles puts a framed photograph on his desk. In it: Erik has his arm slung over Charles' shoulder, and he's scowling. Charles is beaming brightly, at something just off camera. The photo was taken at his eleventh birthday party, the first year after father died and also the first year that Charles had someone to talk to that he didn't secretly loathe. Not that Erik even bothered to pretend he was having a good time, not even when Charles stuffed him with cake and offered to share all of his presents.

No-one ever gets close enough to Charles to ask him who the other boy in the photo is. Charles is faintly grateful for that. He's not entirely sure what he would say.

He used to be my brother, perhaps.

 

4.

College is uneventful, for the most part. His first roommate is a tall, skinny redhaired engineering student named Jonas, who spends most of his time buried under his books and muttering about fractals. By mutual agreement, they both pretend the other person doesn't exist. Charles doesn't mind: he would rather not be forced to make awkward conversation with someone he has to spend time with only by random assignment. Jonas' mind is complex and strange, and more often than not Charles is lulled to sleep by the mechanics of it, delicate wheels clicking together in synchronicity.

Classes are dull, punctuated by brief moments of interest. Evolution, and the possibility that it would come in a sudden leap rather than a slow, gradual climb.

"Interesting work, Mr. Xavier," one of his professors says, handing him back his paper. His mind is gleaming: he thinks Charles is bright, but wrong.

Charles isn't wrong.

 

5.

It takes him a while to start noticing girls. They notice him often enough, they same way they did in high school. _Shy, sweet, really lovely eyes._ Charles doesn't flirt, or initiate, but at one time or another he's always seeing someone. Rosalie, Christina, Joanne, Desiree, the girls flit in and out of his life, only consistent in how fleeting his entanglement with them is.

There's a boy in one of his classes, an ex-football star with a secret. Charles sits down next to him once in the lecture hall, offers him a smile and a pencil. "Listen," he says, letting his hand drop briefly on the boy's arm. "Do you know a place where a guy can relax, get a drink."

"Lots of places like that around, man."

"Yes, I suppose so."

The boy smiles back, suddenly, gives him a nod. "Yeah, I can bring you somewhere if you'd like."

His name, as it turns out, is Steven. Charles never sleeps with him, he's too blonde and too built, but he does end up fucking a fair number of his acquaintances. It's not as if Charles starts off planning to have a type, it just works out that way. It doesn't take much: the tilt of a head, the particular cadence of a voice, the squareness of a jaw. He doesn't keep track of names and he doesn't repeat conquests.

 

6.

He spends a lot of time testing the limits of his power. Once, when tracking the movements of a family sitting down for dinner over twenty miles away, he realizes he can do almost anything, anything at all. The thought sends him stumbling into the nearest bar, where he promises himself never to use his powers again. This lasts as long as it takes for the bartender to ask for his ID. Charles desperately, horribly, needs a drink, and so the bartender forgets how young he is, pours him whiskey, straight up.

Charles drinks until all the voices in everyone's heads finally shut up. Then he stumbles outside and vomits all over someone's shiny black boots.

This is how he meets Moira McTaggert, again.

"Charles?" she says. "Charles, it is you!"

Charles stares blearily up at her face, squints until he recognizes it. "Sorry," he says. "About your shoes."

They meet the following day when Charles is sober again, take a stroll around the campus, "I thought you were dead set on Oxford. Even my mother liked to tell me: Charles Xavier is going to Oxford, why not follow him there. Your grades are good enough, certainly. I think she was rather hoping I'd go away and never come back home." She says this with a smile on her face, with the sunlight catching her brown hair just so.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you're here. The weather in England is horrible, from what I recall."

Moira laughs, and links her arm in his.

 

7.

Charles tells her, up-front, that he's not interested in sustaining a serious relationship with her, that he won't be faithful. Six months later and they're still seeing one another, and at some point he stopped going to the bars, stopped drinking so much, stopped fucking anonymous men. Stopped fucking himself over, essentially.

She picks up the photo of him and Erik, one day, and says, "You must miss him a lot."

"No, I don't." He takes the frame from her, opens a drawer and shoves it deep in, out of sight. Slams the drawer shut again and says, "Come on, we'll be late for dinner."

 

8.

It occurs to him at one point that it's possible, just possible, he's finally getting over the gaping hole in his life where his brother used to be.

 

9.

Charles spots him as he's rushing to catch the last bus that will bring him back to campus. Cropped hair, stubble, and a studied set to his jaw: Charles stares for a full minute before it hits him. It takes him another minute to think of calling out his name, but by then he's already gone, lost in the afternoon crowd.

At dinner, Moira asks, in her quietly concerned manner, "Charles, are you all right? You seem a bit distracted tonight."

"I'm fine, love," Charles says. "I'm just exhausted, that's all. It's been a long day."

"Did you manage to pick up the records I ordered?"

Charles blinks at her. "I'm sorry. I completely forgot, I must have left them on the bus."

It's reasonable enough that he would be distracted, not that he's inclined to tell her why. The only sign she's unhappy is a faint flattening of her lips and a wash of irritation across her mind that fades away soon enough. "There's always next week," she says reassuringly. "Maybe I can come up with you. I haven't been to the city in ages."

Charles plays with his napkin, says, "I'm not sure when I'll be going up again. Project. You know Emerson's a dick."

"No, of course. Later then, I suppose." Moira's dark eyes are wide and serious, and now she's just concerned about his apparent distraction.

She is so very pretty.

 

10.

Erik Erik _Erik._

 

11.

He spends the next two weeks trying to tell himself that it wasn't Erik, just like the last fifteen times he imagined he'd spotted his brother and it turned out to be someone else.

By the time he returns to the city Charles has pretty much convinced himself it's true. Except he turns around on the same street as last time and there he is, walking towards the corner with that same steady, intense grace. Charles trails after him for a while, latches on to his mind like a fisherman following the wild pull of a hook. He doesn't think to call out Erik's name until he almost turns another corner. Then he says, "Erik." The first time it's too soft, and so he raises his voice. "Erik!"

Erik stops, and turns. Sees him. _Sees him_ , oh god. Turns around, once again, and starts walking away in the other direction.

"Erik," Charles calls out, following after. "Erik, stop. Erik."

_Erik_.

As mental pushes go, it's the equivalent of a bullhorn, right in the ear. Charles catches up as Erik stops, his face hard, impassive. "Erik," Charles says, all the millions of words he'd stored up over the past few minutes, over the past three years, drying up and leaving him with absolutely nothing to say. "It's you," he ends up going with, stupidly enough.

"Yes," Erik replies. "Hello, Charles."

 

12.

Erik works in the garage nearby, has for the past six months, lives two blocks away. This he tells Charles in short, exasperated spurts as Charles trails after him, hands tucked into his coat pockets as he babbles nervously. His heart is beating too fast, he can hear his blood thundering through his veins as they walk.

"It's just," he says. It's just you left me. But all he can bring himself to say is, "I can't believe it's you."

"I have to go back to work," Erik says, nodding his head in the direction of a nearby building, men in overalls walking around busily. The same overalls Erik is wearing, Charles realizes now. The name sewn into the pocket, in bright red letters, reads _Lehnsherr._

"You changed your name."

"Yes," Erik says. He hesitates. "Xavier was never mine. Neither was Shaw. I'm sorry, but -"

"No, of course you have to go. Don't ever let me keep you."

Erik's head jerks up as Charles winces at the tone in his voice, but all he says is, "I can't be late."

 

13.

It's as if he's walking around in a dream, half-awake and only semi-conscious of whatever's going on around him. Moira tries, over and over, her beautiful face straining to smile as she asks him what's wrong, why he's been so distant and irritable. "It's just the curriculum," he tries.

"Charles, we both know there's nothing this institution can throw at you that would ever cause you stress." She takes his hands into hers. "Won't you tell me what's been haunting you?"

"Funny you should say that," Charles says, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. "Ghosts, that's what's been haunting me."

"Please stop avoiding my questions, Charles." Annoyance, bubbling right under her skin.

"I'm not," Charles protests. "Look, I brought you those records I left behind."

Moira releases his hand, "I thought you said you weren't going to go back into the city any time soon?"

"I," Charles stops. "I just needed some time alone. Clear my head. I apologize."

Moira is perceptive, always has been. But she doesn't push, just puts her chin on his shoulder and sighs, tells him, "Whenever you're ready." She thinks it's about the two of them. Who knows, maybe it is.

Charles takes her by the arms, pulls back so he can properly look at her. "You're too good for me," he says. "I think we should break up."

They don't, of course. Instead he apologizes profusely once again and then he takes her to bed, maps the familiar lines of her body and resolutely doesn't think of someone else's hands, of skin that's rough and scarred instead of soft and perfectly unmarked.

 

14.

Another trip to the city, and this time he determinedly makes his way down the street to Erik's garage, ignoring the trembling in his hands and the thudding of his heart. A thought hits him suddenly: what if Erik's gone. What if he saw Charles and decided that it would be best if he left, once again. But then Charles turns the corner and sees him, leaning over the open hood of a car, grease-stained and laughing with another mechanic. Charles can't hear what they're saying, but by the signature of their thoughts their banter is familiar, comfortable.

Erik never had any friends in high school other than Charles.

There's a moment right before Erik spots him that Charles almost turns tail and runs, but then Erik lifts his head, and the moment passes. Charles stands his ground as the smile on Erik's face fades, as he throws a rag down and stalks over, pulls Charles aside. Charles wants to relish even the small contact his skin makes with Charles' coat, but he drops Charles' arm almost immediately when they're safely out of sight.

"What are you doing here? You can't be here."

"What, are you ashamed of me or something?" he says it lightly, but Erik's face flattens.

"Fine." Charles puts his fingers to his forehead and concentrates. "They don't see me anymore."

"What?"

"I'm not here. They won't remember I was ever here."

"You can - you can do that now," Erik says, tilting his head.

"Yes, well." Charles drops his hand. "It's been years." He tries to keep the accusation out of his voice, but Erik flinches anyway. "I thought perhaps we could go for lunch. Catch up. You are my brother after all," he adds pointedly.

Erik seems, for a moment, as if he's about to vehemently disagree, but in the end all he says is, "Fine. I have an hour. Just give me some time to get cleaned up first."

Charles chooses the place carefully. It's nearby and inexpensive, quiet enough that they can talk and crowded enough that he will be discouraged from causing a scene. Or at least, that's what he tells himself. He has a mental list of things he won't do: No crying. No yelling. No inflicting of physical violence. No falling at Erik's feet and clutching his legs like a child, asking him _why._

Erik orders food with the familiarity of someone that's been here countless times before, and indeed, the waitress smiles at him when she comes over. "And what about you, sweetie," she says to Charles.

Charles shrugs. "I'll have the same as him. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake, please." Erik snorts.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend, Erik?"

Erik opens his mouth, but Charles holds out his hand and says, "I'm Charles. Charles Xavier. It's a pleasure to eat in your fine establishment, ma'am."

The woman grins and winks at him. "Charmer, this one. Girls better watch out."

Erik waits until she takes the menus and disappears towards the kitchen before he rolls his eyes.

"What?"

"Must you?"

"Must I what."

"I'm Charles Xavier, it's a pleasure to eat in your establishment, ma'am," Erik parrots, his voice low and mocking.

"I was just trying to be friendly," Charles mutters. And this isn't how he'd imagined it would go at all. Any other way but this, surely: Erik surly and unresponsive, and Charles unable to find the right words to say. He could touch Erik's mind, find out what he's thinking, but that's a terrifying prospect, if his thoughts in any way match his demeanor.

He reaches across the table, almost without thinking, and touches Erik on the arm. Erik jerks back, and Charles retreats. "Sorry," Charles says. "Sorry."

They eat their lunch in relative silence. Charles doesn't ask any more questions, and Erik seems disinclined to make any kind of conversation that isn't prompted by Charles. He only gets animated when he brings up Charles' powers. "That was a nice trick in the garage," he says. "What else can you do?"

"Not much else," Charles replies evasively.

"Are you reading my mind now?"

"No," Charles says, shaking his head. "I wouldn't," he says, when Erik looks unconvinced. "Not unless you asked."

"So, college." Erik puts down his burger. "I thought Oxford."

"I decided I didn't want to leave the country."

"Of course."

"You cut your hair."

"Yeah," he runs his fingers over his scalp self-consciously. "Neater this way. Yours is -"

"Too long, I know. Erik -"

"I have to go back to work." Erik slides out of the booth and tosses a few dollars down onto the table. "I'll see you around, Charles."

Charles stares into the space where he used to be for a while, until the waitress comes over. "He left already? That boy works too hard. How do you know him, sweetie?"

"He's my brother," Charles says absently, and can't miss the wash of surprise coming from her.

 

15.

The next time he bumps into Erik, it's entirely coincidental. Charles is wandering up and down the aisles of a bookstore, idly searching for a birthday gift for Moira, when a warm body bumps into his. "Sorry," a familiar voice mutters. They blink at each other for a while, before Erik waves the book in his hand and says ruefully, "One of those nasty habits you inflicted upon me. I can't seem to shake it."

"Yes, of course," Charles smiles, and waits expectantly, but all Erik does is nod his head, and prepare to move off. "That's it? That's all you have to say to me?"

Erik lowers his voice and frowns. "What would you have me say, then?"

"I don't know. It's been three fucking years, Erik." He's shaking, he can't help it.

"You're swearing. It must be serious."

"Fuck you."

"Not quite the cheerful family reunion you were expecting? Shall we hug?" His eyes rake Charles' form up and down. "Or, you always wanted more than that."

"I don't seem to recall you complaining -" He cuts himself off abruptly, presses his lips together. This is exactly where he hadn't wanted this conversation to go, and especially not here. Charles concentrates, diverts everyone's attention away from the two of them. "I don't want us to fight."

"Neither do I." He pushes past Charles, stalks in the direction of the bored cashier, and Charles doesn't stop him.

 

16.

Charles keeps coming back. He can't help himself. He's not exactly stalking Erik: coming up had been his habit for ages, and he's not about to change his habits just because Erik happens to be living here.

After two weeks, Charles can't take it anymore. He walks straight into Erik's garage, bound and determined. "I demand we talk," he says.

"Do you," Erik replies, looking warily around. "You can't be here," he says, his voice tight.

"It's fine," Charles says, waving his hand.

"You've gotten really good at this."

"I've had time to practice. Three years in fact."

"Yes, so you keep reminding me." He sighs. "If you want me to talk to you so much why don't you just make me come with?"

"Do you think I would? If I wanted to do that I already would have. And my life would be far more easier than it currently is."

"Your life looks easy enough to me, Charles."

"Easy? You won't even talk to me," Charles bursts out, completely forgetting his promise not to get upset. "Do you hate me that much? What have I ever done to you that you would -" He can't even finish his sentence, just jerks away angrily, ready to storm off.

But Erik grabs him by the sleeve of his coat, says, "Wait. Just wait."

 

17.

Erik agrees to lunch, on occasion and if he's free and if he feels like it. Considering it's the weekend and Erik is still working, Charles wants to point out that it's obvious his social calendar isn't exactly hopping, but he manages to restrain himself. "I might be busy too," he says, but Erik only shrugs easily and doesn't care at all. Charles wants to scream: it's like battering your fists against a brick wall, over and over again.

It would be so easy, he could just -

He shakes himself, follows Erik dutifully to the same diner from before.

 

18.

They don't talk much, those afternoons when Charles abandons his life to trek down to the city to meet Erik. He comes down on the weekday once in a while, skipping classes that he doesn't need, makes excuses to Moira's concerned, "I missed you today, Charles. Where were you?"

The only time Erik is ever truly engaged is when he's asking Charles about his powers, questioning Charles intently on how much he can do and how, his mind bright and whirling with curiosity -

"It would be nice if we could talk about something other than what I can do for a change."

"Like what?

"There's this graduate program I'm trying to get into -" Charles starts, and Erik's face hardens. "What?"

"Always the perfect son, Charles. Your mother must be so proud of you."

In truth, he hasn't called his mother in weeks, and he wouldn't know what to say to her if she did. "I'm not doing this for her," is all he says.

Erik only shakes his head, and there's a faint sneer on his face when he says, "Oh of course, you were going to make a difference in the world, Charles. That what you're telling yourself?"

"You can make fun of me while you're changing the oil in my car," Charles snaps back. It feels much less satisfying than a punch to Erik's jaw might have been.

Erik says nothing in response, simply gets up and walks away.

Charles chases after him in his mind, _I'm sorry, I didn't mean that._

_Get out of my head._

 

19.

"I was just dropping off something for a friend," Erik says tightly when he shows up on campus the next day, but he doesn't elaborate. Once in Charles' dormroom, he grabs a chair and straddles it, immediately takes up all the air in the already cramped space.

Charles' roommate stares at him, wide-eyed. "This is Erik," Charles says. "Erik, Matt."

"Matt." Erik nods his head as Matt heads towards the door, his expression polite and fixed as Matt mutters something vaguely incomprehensible before ducking out. Charles quenches his rising sense of irritation.

"He's okay," Charles says.

"Why didn't you tell him I was your brother."

"We have different last names now," Charles says. "It would only have confused him."

"Right," Erik replies. "Better I be your bit of rough trade than your relation?"

"That's not -" Charles flushes. "I was never ashamed of you. Never," he says, reaching into the closet for a fresh sweater. "I'll just change and then we'll go out for dinner, there's a mess hall nearby."

Erik's hand snakes out and grabs Charles by the wrist as Charles tosses the shirt onto the bed, "So you brought me here because of the food, then."

Charles snatches his hand away and colors even further, says, "Of course I did. Well, just. Since you're already here, might as well stick around for a while. You might even enjoy yourself."

Erik just laughs, and tosses all of Charles' paper clips into the air, making them dance.

"You've gotten better," Charles says, eyes widening. He can feel how much effort this is taking Erik: almost none. He hasn't attempted to ask Erik what he can do, afraid, in part, that Erik would decide to flashily demonstrate his abilities.

"So have you. I don't understand why you keep asking me questions when you can just rip the answers out of my head."

"It doesn't work that way. And I wouldn't even if it did."

"You were never any good with boundaries. I can't believe that's changed."

"Stop it," Charles replies, angrily jerking his shirt over his head and tossing it into the corner. "Why are you behaving like this?"

Erik shrugs.

"Let's just have a nice dinner, please."

"I'm not hungry," Erik says, and anger radiates from him, almost palpable in its ferocity. Charles staggers back.

"Then what do you want?" In all the fantasies he'd had since Erik left, all the ways he pictured meeting him again, not a single one of them featured an Erik that didn't want him, miss him, as much as Charles did.

"I don't know. Take me to dinner, why not." He rubs at his face wearily, and Charles gets his coat.

Erik only wants coffee, in the end, and when Charles tells him that the coffee here is almost undrinkable in its bitterness Erik only says, "You don't remember, that's how I like it."

 

20.

They're headed towards another restaurant near Erik's workplace when Charles asks, "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Are you worried your colleagues will think you're queer?"

Erik rolls his eyes. "Hardly. It's just - look at you."

Charles stares down at his sweater and slacks combo. "What's wrong with me?"

"You just don't look as if you've ever had to work in your life."

"That's not fair," Charles says, even though it's true. He swallows. "It's where you come from as well, if only you hadn't thrown it all away."

"Right. You keep telling yourself that, Charles. You can't just revise history whenever you feel like it."

"No one was stopping you from making your own opportunities," Charles says hotly. "Is this so much better?"

"I was," Erik says, enunciating every word, "trying to leave you behind. But you don't seem to have gotten that message."

"Stop it. If you actually meant any of these things you say - "

"I do." He turns to walk away, and Charles isn't entirely sure what happens next, except that he doesn't want Erik to leave, and then Erik just.

Halts.

It's only a second, and Charles releases him immediately after he realizes it, but it's long enough for Erik's face to turn black, his mind to reel with rage and helpless fear. Charles can't get the apology out before he's being shoved back by a blast of power. All the metal on his body, he thinks dizzily from where his face just hit the sidewalk. There's blood on the concrete, rich and red. Someone must be hurt. Distantly, he hears Erik's voice calling out his name, senses worry, and regret. He should stand up, maybe. He should. He closes his eyes instead.

 

21.

He's in an unfamiliar bed. It's more comfortable than his dorm room bed, but the sheet tucked to his chin scratches. Charles moans and tries to sit up, but a marching band is playing loudly in his head and it won't go away. "Mrf," Charles says, as Erik's face swims into view in front of him.

"Are you all right? Charles." _Charles._

_I'm fine, but you're far too loud. Please be quiet._

"I'm sorry," Erik says, but softer now. A hand brushes across his forehead. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I would never," his voice breaks slightly. "You know I would never."

_Still too loud._

"I'm sorry," Erik says again. He jerks himself away and out of Charles' line of sight, but Charles can track the bright sphere of his mind to the window.

_It's okay. I probably deserved it._

"You did, but that's still no excuse."

Charles starts to laugh, then stops to say, "Ow."

"You shouldn't talk," Erik says disapprovingly.

_Why, will you toss me into a brick wall this time?_

"Don't tempt me. You never know when to shut up."

Charles touches his face tentatively, winces at the swollen, tender flesh. He glances at Erik's mind for a moment, finds an image of his battered face. Hit the sidewalk hard, then. _Where are we?_

_My apartment. Don't try to get up._

_I wasn't about to._ He was, but it takes far too much effort, so in the end he just yawns, and drifts back to sleep.

The sun is shining the next time he regains consciousness. He tries to sit up, and is encouraged when the room doesn't tilt around him.

Erik is in the kitchen. He glances up when Charles wanders out of the bedroom, says, "I made you hot chocolate. You can have it in bed."

Charles waves him away. "I'm fine. I can do the couch." He scratches at his bare chest, stares idly at the flakes of blood that stick to his nails. "Where's my shirt?"

"I threw it away. It was soaked through with blood."

"My sweater?"

"Same."

"I could have just washed it," Charles gapes at him. "That was my favorite sweater."

"Soaked through with blood," Erik repeats flatly, and Charles sees him, throwing the clothes away in a fit of rage and regret, unable to even glance at them. He shuts his mouth. Sits down and accepts the hot chocolate, and the t-shirt that Erik tosses at him.

"So this is where you live?"

"Obviously."

"It's nice. Comfy."

"It's hardly the mansion. You don't have to be so unfailingly polite."

"I wasn't." Charles moans as he sips the hot chocolate. He hadn't even realized he was cold.

"Are you okay," Erik asks immediately.

"I'm great, this is just really good."

"Uh-huh." A blanket is thrust at him, and when Charles just stares at it blankly Erik wraps it determinedly around his shoulders. It smells like Erik.

Erik takes a seat on the coffee table in front of him and takes away his cup. Charles mews weakly in protest but Erik ignores him to take his face gently in his hands. "You'll be fine," he says after examining Charles for a while. "Gives your face some character."

"What will I do without my good looks? I suppose I'll have to rely on my charm, then."

"So you're screwed, basically."

Charles blinks unsteadily at him as he smiles, and touches his fingers to Erik's jaw. "Don't," Erik says, but he doesn't move.

Charles moves his hand to Erik's lips. "Don't," Erik says again, mouthing the words against the press of Charles' fingers.

Charles says, "Okay," and Erik opens his mouth, wide enough so Charles can slip his fingers in.

 

22.

The next three days are spent in a drug and sex hued haze. Drugs because Charles whines about the pain once too often and Erik stomps out, returns with pills that he all but forces down Charles throat. Sex because, well. It's a long weekend, and neither of them have anything else to do.

Not that Erik makes it easy. He doesn't even have oil in the apartment, and his bed is definitely not made for two. "How the fuck do you have sex in this thing," he practically snarls in frustration as Erik drags him by the hips into his lap and Charles almost falls off the bed. "Or do you bring your partners elsewhere."

Erik doesn't reply, just slides his palm up the underside of Charles' cock until Charles shimmies. Charles can't help but be curious though. "No-one?" he says finally.

"I've been busy."

"Yes, but it's not as if sex is all that time-consuming."

"Speak for yourself. And I suppose you've been fucking everything that moves?" Charles turns his head into the pillow so Erik doesn't see the flush of his shame. It doesn't matter, he wants to tell Erik. They were all you. Always. Erik's hand tightens on his cock though, and he groans instead.

 

23.

Erik has a neighbour. A really pretty, blonde neighbour named Mary who lives down the hall and drops by on Sunday to borrow a cup of sugar from him. "So," she says, smiling brightly and peeking over his shoulders. "Is Erik in?"

Charles frowns. "He's showering. I don't think we have sugar."

"You don't? What happened to your face?"

"I fell. And no we don't," Charles says blankly, and doesn't open the door any further until she almost pushes herself in. By the time Erik emerges from the bathroom, clad only in low-riding pants and a towel slung around his neck, they're both glaring at each other from across the room.

Erik smiles, the first genuine smile Charles has seen from him. "Mary, I see you've already met my brother." Mary looks, briefly, confused, even as Charles scowls.

"Brother, right," she mutters under her breath, and Charles can't take it anymore. He suggests, gently, that she might want to return to her apartment with the sugar she didn't need. "I should go back to my apartment," Mary says.

"Don't forget your sugar," Charles says.

When she's gone, Erik narrows his eyes at Charles. "Did you do that?"

"She has designs on you, you know," Charles says instead of answering the question.

"Yes, seeing as how I'm not blind or stupid, I do know." Erik sighs.

"She thinks she'll wear you down eventually, because no one has ever said no to her before. For a brief, shining moment she almost gave up when she thought you were a fairy, but then you had to ruin it by announcing me as your brother."

"How is this even remotely your business," Erik says wearily. "And you are my brother. What was I supposed to say to her?"

"I don't like her."

Erik snorts incredulously. "You do not get to do this to some girl I have no intention of getting involved with. And even if I was, you do not get to."

"I didn't do anything."

"You think I still belong to you."

That's because you still belong to me. He doesn't intend for the thought to reach Erik, but it must have, because he shakes his head and slams himself into the bedroom.

"You're behaving childishly," Charles calls out, standing outside the door like an idiot. Erik opens it, his face mutinous, but he only drags Charles inside by his belt and pushes him onto the bed.

Charles struggles to rise, indignant, but Erik straddles him with long legs and holds him down with one hand loose around his throat. "You're impossible."

"Kiss me," Charles says.

"No. Turn over." He starts to rise, but Charles grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him down until they're an inch apart.

"Kiss me. Please." He sounds desperate, and stupid, but then it's Erik, and Charles has never known any other way to be with him.

Erik's eyes darken. "No."

"Please."

"It's not supposed to be like this, Charles. You're my brother." Charles pulls Erik down even closer, so Erik has no choice but to kiss him. _It was always supposed to be like this,_ he tells Erik dizzily. _Always._

 

24.

Moira says, because Charles has been skipping classes and breaking most of his dates with her, "Charles, I'm trying to be patient with you because I believe in us, but you're making it terribly hard. If you don't care for me anymore -" Trying being the operative word, she's more than just a little fed up, this close to giving up.

"I do," Charles says, and it's true. He does. She's perfect for him. They're perfect for each other.

Except.

 

25.

Erik is still unhappy whenever Charles comes to the garage. It's as if he's dead set on compartmentalizing his life, and the part that includes Charles isn't allowed to be associated with his place of work. Charles goes anyway, and the first thing Erik says is, "Get out."

"It's fine, I told you they won't see me."

Erik only frowns and makes threatening noises, so Charles just shoves him up against the nearest car and gets on his knees. Erik says, "Stop," but it's unconvincing and when Charles tugs on his zipper his cock is already hard. He buries his fingers in Charles' hair as Charles blows him, and it's hard to focus on anything else, Erik is making those noises he makes and he's saying Charles' name like it hurts, like he's dying.

He comes, hot and wet against the back of Charles' throat, and Charles swallows it all down, but when Erik hauls him up back to his feet his face is hard, impassive, only the slight flush of his cheeks betraying him. Charles grins toothily at him, and Erik grabs his chin. "Is that what you want," he says, "For me to treat you like a whore. You come in to my workplace and you behave like this."

Charles wrenches himself away and lifts his chin defiantly. "I'll take what I can get."

"Get out."

Charles starts backing away, says, "You might want to tuck yourself in. Wouldn't want your friends to wonder why you suddenly decided to take your dick out." He bumps into a mechanic as he's stalking away. The man looks confused, and Charles says, "Forget," and he does.

 

26.

He could make Erik want him. He could make Erik never leave, make him beg and follow Charles around for a change, anxious for any scrap of attention.

He throws a book viciously at the wall, watches it hit the floor with a dull thud.

 

27.

"You shouldn't have to hide," Erik says, when Charles complains about his evolutionary psychology class, over lunch in Erik's apartment.

"What?" He sighs and puts down his sandwich. "It's just, I could tell them how some of the mind works, but they won't understand how I know. My theories are all 'radical and unproven' so I keep getting borderline grades."

"Charles Xavier, fail? You must be mortified."

"If only they would see," Charles says crossly.

"What you can do. You shouldn't have to hide it."

Charles blinks at him. "And the alternative would be? Erik, the repercussions."

"I know," Erik snaps his teeth shut in frustration. "I know what will happen. I've been hiding my whole life. Who I am. I thought I'd leave, and it would be different. But it's not, because it's just easier to pretend. So you're right after all, Charles. Here's to that."

"That's not what I meant," Charles says, swallowing thickly.

"No, it is. But it doesn't make it right. We're special, you and I. Aren't we?"

"We're not special. Just different."

 

28.

Moira shows up, while Erik is lounging on Charles' bed, flipping through his books. She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "Erik," she says. "Charles, you didn't tell me your brother was - You didn't tell me." To her credit, she manages to keep the accusation out of her voice.

"I was just dropping by," Erik replies, flashing her a cheerful grin. "We only bumped into each other about a week ago or so."

"Oh," Moira says. "Well, it's good to see you again. You look well."

"As do you." They were never friends in high school, despite Moira trying to reach out. But Erik was always too angry, too closed off. In that respect, nothing much has changed.

Moira leans up to kiss Charles on the cheek as he stares at Erik, as Erik's smile fades abruptly away. "I shall let the two of you spend some time together then," and Charles can feel her confusion, the way her subconscious is struggling to tell her what her rational mind believes can't be true. Charles manages to tear his gaze away and kisses her back, on the lips this time.

"Thank you for your patience, love," he says.

"I hope to see you soon, Erik," she says, and leaves in a faintly confused daze as Erik ignores her to glare at Charles.

"It's not what you think," Charles says.

"I'm certain it's exactly what I think." He shrugs. "I don't care."

"Yes, this is obviously you not caring."

"Just because i don't like your simpering girlfriend doesn't mean I give a damn."

"I see it's going to be like this tonight, then." Charles grabs the book from Erik's hand and throws it back onto the desk.

"What is it you want, Charles?" Erik says. "You want me to fuck you and give you my attention but then at the same time you want the perfect life with the respectable girlfriend, and the two of you can get married and live happily ever after. Maybe you can even father some bastard on the side, a decade or so down the line."

"I'm nineteen years old, Erik. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"I know the kind of person you are."

"Yes, you do," Charles says, and he drops himself onto the bed, and when he puts his hand on Erik's thigh Erik doesn't jerk away. "I don't love her."

"Shut up."

"I'll break up with her if you want." He would. He wouldn't. Very possibly.

_Shut up._

He's got Charles flat on his back in one swift move, pressing him down onto the bed, his face inches away from Charles'. Charles lifts his chin defiantly as the world is reduced to just the two of them, in this space and in this time. "You left me."

"I would have asked you to come along if I'd thought you'd say yes," Erik says.

"I might have, you never know."

"Liar." He stops, and pushes himself slowly to his feet. "You should go be with your girlfriend," he says flatly, resolutely.

 

29.

Erik chooses to pretend, after that, that Moira doesn't exist.

It's not that easy for Charles.

 

30.

They're on Erik's ridiculous bed on a slow, lazy afternoon. Charles is collapsed on top of Erik, rocking slowly so the heat starts building up once again, and Charles says, "I want to fuck you, can I?"

"If I say no will you keep asking?"

"Yes."

Erik groans as Charles thrusts against his belly. There's still oil on their bodies, slick and warm, and Erik's thighs fall open to accommodate him. He turns his head to the side and squeezes his eyes shut and Charles kisses him, lays a trail of kisses against his jawline. Whispers, _I love you_ , and, _Open up for me_ , as Erik hisses and his mind goes blank, threading bright lines of pleasure between them. It's easier than he anticipated, he thrusts once, twice, and a third time and he's in, and Erik lets out a long, anguished breath.

"You need to move at some point," Erik says tightly, after a while, and it's not as if Charles isn't planning to, but his senses are already overheated as it is.

"Gimme a moment," he replies, and nuzzles at Erik's throat.

Erik laughs, low. _Does she know?_

"What?"

"Your sweet little Moira. Does she know what you can do?"

Charles groans. "I hardly think this is the time."

_But if she did._

Charles slides out slow, almost all the way, and slams himself back in. Erik gasps, his back arching, and stops talking.

 

31.

He tells Moira they should have a break, in the end, watches her pretty face crumble and wants desperately to fix her pain. So maybe this is love, after all. He doesn't quite know anymore. Maybe all he has with Erik is the memory of who they used to be together, and not who they are now. Not that it matters: he can't take it back.

"Is it because of your brother," she asks, and Charles shakes his head mutely.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just can't be in a relationship, right now. It doesn't feel fair to you."

 

32.

"If you did it to please me, don't," Erik says.

"Not everything is about you."

Except.

 

33.

They're lying together, mattress shoved to the floor so they don't fall off, and for the first time Charles sleeps through the night. Wakes up early morning, and he has classes, but he can't be bothered to get up so he just dozes, grateful that he hasn't been kicked out of Erik's apartment yet.

When he cracks one eye open Erik is staring at him, his expression carefully blank. His thoughts are clear, and bright. "You have to go," Erik says.

"All right."

But Erik reaches out, and does nothing but trace his fingertips across Charles' shoulderblades, so very lightly. They stay like that, for a while.

 

34.

Finals week approaches, and despite his panic that he will flunk out this time, he skates through, the way he always does. Moira gives him a faint smile of support whenever he sees her, but otherwise doesn't choose to come any closer or attempt a conversation. Charles can't say as he blames her. Through the constant rush of the tutorials and lectures and begging professors for extensions, he only ends up going to see Erik again after three weeks.

Erik opens the door easily enough when Charles shows up at his doorstep, but everything about him is hard and reserved. "I do apologize," Charles says, trying for cheer. "I've been so busy."

"Do you want a beer?"

"Sure." Erik tosses him a bottle before he leans against the kitchen counter, watching Charles with a flat, studied intensity. "What," Charles says. "Suddenly it matters whether or not I'm around? I do have a life of my own, you know."

"Of course you do." Erik puts his beer down carefully on the kitchen counter. "Come here."

"No. I don't want to." His belt lurches forward, as does his watch, and with it the rest of him. "Stop that."

"Make me."

Charles gives up, allows himself to be dragged until they're both about an inch apart. "If I didn't know any better, Mr. Lehnsherr, I'd say you missed me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Say it," Charles says, reaching past Erik to put his bottle down on the counter next to Erik's. "Say it or I'm leaving."

"Stop talking," Erik says roughly. He grabs Charles by the hair and pulls his head back until Charles' neck is drawn tight, before he spins him around and pushes him into the kitchen counter.

Charles braces himself against the tile and says, "I take that as an admission, then."

Erik just bites down on the base of Charles' throat, hard enough that it hurts, and says, "Stop talking. I keep telling you." His fingers are inside Charles' pants, stroking him with slow, serious intent.

"Are you going to punish me if I don't?"

"Yes."

He pushes up Charles' foreskin and slides his thumb around the head of Charles' cock and Charles' knees almost give out. "I will stop talking now," he mumbles, and lets his head nestle into Erik's shoulder, mostly because he can't support his weight any longer.

"You don't get to leave again," he tells Erik afterwards, Erik face down on the bed and Charles with his head pressed against the base of his spine.

"You were doing fine enough without me."

"No I wasn't. I was barely alive," Charles says, sitting up abruptly.

"Don't be melodramatic."

"I'm not." He drops back down onto his side, shoves at Erik until he's allowed to wrap himself around him, his face in the crook of Erik's shoulder. "I won't ask you why you came back to this city," he says, as soft as he can.

Erik stiffens. "It's not your business."

"You could always just let go."

"I can't."

"But you do love me."

"Yes, for fuck's sake Charles. You know this." He slides his fingers into Charles' hair, tugs his head close. "But one thing has nothing to do with the other."

"You left."

"I had to. I have to." There's silence for a while, then Erik says, "I missed you. I missed - only you. But I'm not what you need. I know you think otherwise, but it's true."

Charles laughs. "You say this as if I have any choice in the matter." He swallows thickly, and Erik wipes at his cheek, presses his lips against Charles' forehead. The space in between them seems infinite, and yet -

"No, I don't suppose we do," Erik says.

 

35.

Summer comes, and with it the promise of three months without deadlines and responsibilities of any sort. Charles usually finds something to do during the holidays, taking on extra assignments or interning somewhere, but this time he asks Erik tentatively, "Do you know of any places for rent?"

"You're not going home?"

"Nothing to go home for. I thought maybe I'd stick around for a while."

Erik says nothing, but eventually he nods his head.


End file.
